


Thrick or Threat

by auburn



Series: Bad Wigs [6]
Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Out of Date, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auburn/pseuds/auburn
Summary: Bad Wigs Fluff. Sark meets Francie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Posting old fic off Live Journal to AO3. 2004.

Francie looked down, then up, then down again - slowly. She took in the tousled blond hair, amused blue eyes, crooked smile, the neck, the bare shoulders and sleek chest narrowing down to a lean waist and the sheet draped temptingly low over his hipbones, down past a glimpse of thigh and a muscled calf to his bare feet.  
  
"That," she said, "is Sydney's sheet."  
  
Blond boy smiled wider as Sydney came racing down the hallway from her bedroom, with her shirt inside out and her hair in every direction.  
  
Sydney skidded to a halt behind blond boy, looked from Francie to him, then back to Francie's growing smile and slapped her hand over her eyes.  
  
"Oh God."  
  
"So you must be Sydney's new boyfriend?"  
  
"Oh God," Sydney repeated.  
  
Blond boy nodded.  
  
"Michael, right?" Francie held out her hand.  
  
"Sark actually." He shifted his grip on the sheet to his other hand so he could take hers.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Michael's seeing Eric."  
  
Francie raised her eyebrows at Sydney, who had gone pink. Pinker, since she'd been more than a little flushed anyway.  
  
"Do I know this Eric?" Her eyes flicked to Sark, who was still smiling, and back with the silent message, _'You've been holding out on me.'_  
  
"No."  
  
The ringing of the phone provided happy (and convenient) interruption. Francie inspected Sark once more then went into the living room and picked up.   
  
"No, this is not Joey's Pizza," she snapped.  
  
Sark snickered.  
  
Sydney glared at him while tugging at her shirt. "Go get dressed!" she hissed. She noticed the outward facing seams and whimpered. Oh, this was just perfect.   
  
"No, I'm sorry, Mr. Bristow," Francie said into the phone. "We get these stupid wrong numbers all of the time and Sydney won't let me have the number changed - "   
  
Pause.  
  
Sark looked at Sydney. Sydney looked back at him. They both waited in the hall like two kids about to called in to talk to the principal.   
  
"Sure, she's here. I'll get her. No, don't worry about it. I want to talk to her boyfriend anyway."  
  
Sydney's mouth turned down, her face blanched and she staggered back against the wall. Oh crap. Francie and her big damned mouth.   
  
"Hasn't she mentioned him? The blond guy? Sark?"  
  
Sark's shoulder blades hit the wall too. He lost a lot of color too.  
  
"He's here."  
  
Double crap.  
  
Sark slid down the wall until his ass hit the floor. He looked up at Sydney and swallowed hard. He was dead. Dead dead dead. And before he died, Bristow was going to make him wish he was dead. So that would be a relief when he was dead. Suddenly, Sydney's suggestion that he get dressed sounded very good. He didn't want die wearing her sheet.  
  
Sydney was thumping her head against the wall again. Normally, he'd stop her, but it seemed like sound response to the situation. Sark decided to try it himself.   
  
Thunk.  
  
Thump.  
  
Thunk.   
  
Thump.  
  
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Syd," Francie exclaimed from the doorway. She was holding the phone. "It's not the end of the world."  
  
Sydney slitted her eyes open. Francie extended the phone. "Your Dad wants to talk to you."  
  
Sydney looked at the phone. With the same degree of enthusiasm she'd show toward a grenade with its pin pulled, she accepted it.  
  
"Hi, Dad."  
  
Sark tried thumping his head back against the wall again.   
  
"Yes, Dad."  
  
Sydney slid down the wall opposite Sark. Francie stood by with her arms crossed and watched them with a malicious smile.  
  
"Yes, Dad."  
  
Sydney's feet were still bare and her toes just touched Sark's. Since he was dead anyway, he rubbed his foot against hers. Sydney jumped like he'd jolted her with electricity. Which he hadn't ever, though of course he'd tortured more than one person with it. Not since finagling his way into SD-6 though. It occurred to Sark that he was acting much nicer than he ever had before and he could only attribute it to not wanting to displease Sydney.   
  
Crap.  
  
He thunked his head against the wall again.  
  
"He's here."  
  
Thunk.  
  
"Now?"  
  
Sydney gulped.  
  
"Ooookay."  
  
Thump.   
  
"I'll bring him."  
  
He stopped himself before his head hit the wall again. There was going to be dent in the wall if he didn't, plus he didn't need the headache.   
  
Sydney ended the call and flipped it at Francie, who fumbled but caught it.  
  
"Sark."  
  
"Yes?" he asked, trying for his silky tone and sounding more apprehensive than not.  
  
"Get dressed. We're going to meet my father."  
  
"Do I have time to leave the country?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Go into hiding?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Arm myself?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Very well." He got to his feet without flashing Francie. She looked disappointed. He smiled at her. "Lovely meeting you, Ms. Calfo. Jack Bristow's going to kill me, so I'll bid you good-bye."  
  
"Mr. Bristow's not that bad," Francie said.  
  
Sydney sighed. "He knows Sark."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Ladies," he murmured and headed for the bedroom and his clothes.  
  
Fifteen minutes they were in his car, heading for the Credit Dauphine.   
  
"I presume your father called because there's a mission?" Sark asked as he shifted gears to weave through traffic.  
  
"Yes. They need both of us."  
  
Sark didn't look at her. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"  
  
"Probably not," Sydney said. "We supposed to report to optech as soon as we get to the offices."  
  
He was going to hate this. He just knew it.   
  
"I just hope it's not another bunny suit," he muttered.  
  
"I just hope it's not another lisp," Sydney added darkly.  
  


***

  
  
"It's always Halloween when Sloane picks the disguises," Sydney snapped. She glared at the three inch heels on the shoes she was supposed to wear and renewed her determination to murder Sloane some day. A spike heel would do the job. She'd dress him in a leather teddy and drop his dead body in front of the CIA offices.  
  
She put on her wig - long, black and wavy - and glared at the mirror.  
  
"I look like Morticia Adams in a mini-skirt."  
  
"Not a cultural reference I'm familiar with," Sark said from the doorway of the optech office she was using to change in, "but not a bad look on you, Sydney."  
  
She turned and looked him over.  
  
Yep. Sloane had been at it again.  
  
She could - almost - forgive her costume when she got a load of Sark's.  
  
Combat boots. Burgundy leather pants. Black mesh shirt. Dog collar, fingerless gloves, motorcycle jacket, chains. The pants clung low on his hips and the shirt rode high enough to display toned abs and that damned silver navel ring.  
  
He had on more eyeliner than her.   
  
"Yow."  
  
She wanted to drag him into a closet and ravage him, making a particular point of biting that wonderful, crooked lip.  
  
Sark rolled his eyes.  
  
"Can we get on with this?"  
  
Sydney stepped into the loathed shoes and let Sark lead her back toward the conference room.  
  
"Did Marshall tell you anything about this latest mission?" she asked.  
  
"We're planting something in the offices of an ex-Alliance member. The front's an S&M club. Apparently, it will take both of us to get inside, so your father will be going in with us and providing the distraction," Sark said.  
  
Sydney stopped and lifted her eyebrows at him.  
  
"Marshall's a fount of information."  
  
"I thought he just stuttered and went into brain-lock around you."  
  
"Not since New Year's." Sark paused. "Though he still needs to pay for the bunny suit."  
  
"You're not going to forget that for a long time, are you?"  
  
"Sydney, I'm permanently scarred. It wasn't so much having to wear it," Sark explained, his expression displaying remembered horror, "as seeing your father in one - a pink one."  
  
"Okay, yeah. That was bad," Sydney admitted.  
  
She started forward and realized Sark was frozen. His blue eyes were dilated, his breathing shallow and fast, little drops of perspiration apparent on his upper lip.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"It's an S&M club, Sydney. Your father is going in with us." Sark swallowed hard. "In disguise."  
  
"In disguise?" Sydney echoed.  
  
"Sydney, if we start running now, we might make it," Sark said seriously. "For the sake of our sanity, I think we have to try to get away."  
  
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her.  
  
"Don't you understand, Sydney? I don't think I can take it. Not Jack Bristow tricked out in leather bondage gear."  
  


-End-


End file.
